


Lost and Found

by TerenceFletcher



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Gas-N-Sip, Gen, Human Castiel, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9301580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerenceFletcher/pseuds/TerenceFletcher
Summary: AU to episode 9x06 ‘Heaven Can’t Wait’: Castiel works at Gas-n-Sip, but he does not call Dean on the possible case. He carries on his daily routine as a sales associate, for now this is all he is capable of, and does not watch the news. He remembers he wasn’t welcome to join the Winchesters— and he does not feel like taking another attempt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon!verse AU, so all preceding events are the same as in the show. Although 9x06 is full of subtext and fan-service, after watching it (a few times), I never stopped thinking how humiliating it was for Castiel and how visibly awkward to Dean, to be meeting and talking like that, over the Gas-n-Sip counter and later in the car. It was bugging me for a while, that one-time reunion with very unclear consequences for Castiel and very dramatic secret-keeping for Dean, so eventually I decided to see what would happen if Castiel had some more dignity and pride than he was allowed to in the show, and Dean went for a hunt alone.
> 
> My greatest and warmest thanks to [@undeadandinbed](http://undeadandinbed.tumblr.com) for beta-reading (and editing) this fic to make it not only look English, but also read English too :)

It was a Thursday morning, sunny and warm. Rexford, Idaho, vaguely seen at a distance, was probably still deep asleep, and the road running past the Gas-n-Sip was empty. Early travelers, yawning and sluggish, and truck drivers with rough tanned faces would soon start bursting into the small convenience store, but now it was quiet and peaceful. Another busy day was just minutes away. With a little sigh Castiel switched on the neon ‘Open’ and went to check the slushy machine.

That was his ordinary duty and headache. The machine was rather old and often broke down, so every couple of days he had to take out the empty container, shake it well and put back in place to refill. He’d developed the method all by himself (Nora was even worse with all sorts of technical appliances) and was secretly proud of it.

There wasn’t much to contribute to his pride these days. Working as a sales associate, despite the nice job title, was in fact tedious and tiring, and every evening Castiel was nearly falling, powerless and exhausted. Falling again and again— not from Heaven this time, but to his sleeping place in the store’s stock room. He felt grateful to Nora for taking it easy and not throwing his sleeping bag away. Whatever she’d thought of him, it was probably the best treatment he could now expect. In return, he tried his best at the store and hoped Nora was happy.

Her shift was about to start, and Castiel went back to his duties. He refilled the coffee pots, arranged the frozen snacks in the fridge neatly, then took a broom to sweep the still-clean floor. This was more an everyday routine, than necessity, but it somehow helped the time to run faster.

“Morning, Steve,” Nora called from the entrance, “all fine?”

Castiel put the broom in the corner and thrust his head out of the back room.

“Hello, Nora. Yes.”

Nora smiled.

“You’re a treasure. Okay, I’ll do the counter today, take your time with the stuff in there.”

“Of course.”

Castiel was neither surprised, nor offended by this— when Nora was in, she preferred to serve the customers by herself. She obviously trusted him enough to delegate that part as well (and when this happened for the first time, Castiel considered it a significant promotion from cleaning), but with her, the sales just ran smoothly. Nora was nice to people, always caring and smiling, and never doing anything wrong. She was quite attractive as well, and managed to sell as many lottery tickets a day as Castiel did in a week. As long as this allowed her to pay her associate, he didn’t mind.

Being human wasn’t easy.

At the end of the day, he was lucky to get this job. When Castiel came to Rexford, he had nothing but stolen clothes and a fake id. Nora took a risk hiring him without ID, the risk no other employer from Kansas to Idaho ever wanted to take, and he changed his angel blade for a dusty broom. Maybe that was even good for him, Castiel thought, maybe he had to accept this trick of fate to better see the value he’d lost. So every morning he opened the store, did his job, then locked the door for the night— and did nothing but that.

He didn’t open a newspaper in weeks, and never watched the TV attached to the ceiling above the counter. When Nora switched it on for customers, Castiel forced himself not to listen. He’d tried once, but immediately felt sick on just a mention of the ‘meteorite rain over Idaho’. He wasn’t sure he had the right to ignore that, but without any rescue plan in mind, this was a bit too painful. And clearly a bit too much for his present life filled with emptiness and crusty snacks he couldn’t even afford in the fridge.

Inside his small world, now bound by the  glass walls of the store, another long day went on. People kept coming in, browsing the store, paying for gas, chatting with Nora. From the back office, Castiel heard her soft laugh and customers’ voices, all unfamiliar. He didn’t listen though, he knew he should, but he wasn’t aware of the local news and failed to understand the jokes. It was easier with the monsters, he thought, at least they didn’t joke. He’d never guessed before that fighting was less complicated than living a normal life, but it turned out it was.

By the evening, crowds in the store dissolved. Castiel glanced at the watch above the office door: it was 7 pm. His extended, twelve-hour shift was over. Now he had to wait for Nora to leave (because of her little daughter, she never stayed late) and then, if he was lucky, he could sleep.

He came out as Nora switched off the sign at the entrance.

“Oh, what a crazy day, Steve,” she said. She looked tired, and a tiny wrinkle on her forehead grew deeper, revealing her age. “But we made it just fine. The slushy machine has held up for the whole day, isn’t that amazing?”

“It is,” Castiel nodded with a tentative smile. It seemed his method was working, or maybe there weren’t many people using the thing.

“You coming?”

“Soon. I need to check the bathroom.”

Nora took her purse. “Don’t stay too late.”

“Tomorrow is my day off.”

“Mine too. I was thinking…” She cut off and looked at him hesitantly.

Castiel squinted, suddenly feeling that the rest of the sentence wouldn’t bring him good news.

But Nora smiled again and waved dismissively, “No, nothing. I’m too tired. Oh, and I nearly forgot…” She pulled open the drawer under the counter and took out a black cell phone. “There was a guy here today, and he lost that near the gas pump. We saw it when he was already gone, I thought he might return but he didn’t… He wasn’t looking well, by the way, so maybe he’ll come back later. See, the phone’s pretty expensive, new make… So if you see him, please give it back, would you?”

Castiel took the phone from her and looked at it. The device seemed oddly familiar.

“Okay,” he said. “What did this guy look like?”

Nora frowned, recalling. “Tall, well-built, light-brown hair, plaid shirt and jeans…” Castiel held his breath as she finished, “And driving an old black Chevy.”

 

#

Five minutes later the phone was still on the counter, behind the register, where Nora had put it. Castiel knew perfectly well whose phone that was, but after staring at it for a long while, he couldn’t help it. He pressed a button to unlock the screen. The dark blue wallpaper showed him two unread messages. The sender’s name was stored in the phone memory as ‘Sam’.

Dean.

Dean had stopped here, and Castiel missed him. He was cleaning men’s room or gathering empty Red Bull cans from the floor, or changing the bulb in the back office, and just didn’t hear the black Impala driving in, and then didn’t see Dean standing by the counter. Although Castiel occasionally entered the store, it was probably just minutes in a day— and hours he spent away, invisible and blind. So there was no surprise he couldn’t spot Dean among other people. Absolutely no surprise.

_Dean._

Of course, for the same reasons, Dean himself could not see Castiel. Apparently, he spent inside no more than the few minutes he needed to pay for a six-pack, or jerky if he was hungry. For Dean, it was just an ordinary quick stop on his long way, he wasn’t expecting to meet someone he used to know.

If he ever wanted to.

Maybe he wouldn’t be happy to see Castiel at all, maybe he would get angry. Or even worse, he could remain silent making clear he didn’t want to speak. It was hard to tell. Castiel still wasn’t sure why Dean had asked him to leave.

There should have been reasons.

There had been the reasons Castiel didn’t want to know, and today Dean was just driving through Rexford and stopped for gas— that was all Castiel knew.

There might have been a case, he thought with a sudden burst of interest. There could be something weird happening around (which Castiel was totally unaware of), and Dean was out for a hunt. And probably Sam was too. He might have been sitting in the car at the gas station, waiting for his brother to come back. Sam was unwell just recently, and though Castiel could not heal him anymore, he was glad Sam got better enough to join the hunt.

The Winchesters were always together.

Castiel glanced at the phone again. Wait. But if Sam was there, why was he texting Dean? Wouldn’t he know the phone was lost?

Two unread messages flashed back at Castiel like an alarm signal. There should have been a reason to this, he tried to reassure himself, a very simple and explanatory reason, he was just missing some piece of information to figure it out. Maybe the brothers had agreed to separate for the hunt— that had happened before— and Dean was late to their meeting because he’d stopped for gas, and there was less than nothing to worry about.

But Castiel felt there wasn’t.

_He wasn’t looking well, by the way._

Nora’s words echoed in his head. Dean hadn’t been looking well, she said. But Dean was always looking well, even when he looked bad. He was looking well after getting out from Hell and of Heaven, he couldn’t possibly look other than well. And how could he drop his cell phone without noticing it? And then keep going for hours more, not realizing that something was missing?

He wasn’t looking well.

The phone screen went black again. For a moment, Castiel wondered if he could read Sam’s messages or maybe even write something back, but he dismissed the idea rather quickly. It would be a horrible intrusion of his privacy, and Dean would definitely not like that. He was always very sensitive to instances of Castiel invading his personal space, and would never allow him to get close enough to read his private messages.

Moreover, Castiel had literally nothing to tell Sam. He didn’t know where Dean was, what he was doing and why he’d lost his phone. Castiel was completely useless even in this easy human task.

_If you see him, please give it back, would you?_

Rather simple, but that was exactly what was needed to be done. He had to find Dean— and let him explain whatever he wished, or at least return his phone to him. Castiel had just to find him.

But where to start? He didn’t have a car (or any friend with a car), and it would take him hours if he’d walked around without any leads. Dean had probably left the town already and was miles away, heading in any possible direction. That was what he normally did— driving day and night— if Sam was waiting for him. Normally he wouldn’t stop until the Impala’s tank needed to be refilled again, but normally he didn’t lose his phones and looked okay.

What if he really didn’t feel well? What would he do?

Castiel turned swiftly and looked at the local map attached to the wall behind the counter. Rexford wasn’t a big town and had only half a dozen hotels, spread randomly over the street grid. Castiel drew closer, moving his index finger along Route 20, where the Gas-n-Sip was, to narrow the search. The first motel, ‘Old Richard’, was towering right on the road, and Castiel remembered its light-blue neon sign and never ending loud music. He hesitated a moment, keeping his finger on the map, but then firmly moved it on. Under no circumstances would Dean choose that today.

The next motel seemed more realistic. One from a motel chain Dean and Sam used sometimes was a mile to the north, and a block away from the main road. Almost the perfect place to hide or take a breath.

He stared at the map, as if trying to get a live image of a motel through the laminated paper, and then nodded to himself. Yes. He’d start with this one and check if Dean was there. And then…

Then he would hand him the phone and leave.


	2. Chapter 2

It took him twenty minutes to get a ride. At last, an aged truck driver looking for a night’s lodging himself, stopped to pick Castiel up. The truck had Nevada license plates, and the driver seemed happy to have a company, even for a short while. He greeted Castiel in a friendly voice and tapped the passenger seat, inviting him to get in.

The truck pulled out. The first minute they were moving in silence, but then the driver cleared his throat.

“Heading north?”

“Just a few miles,” Castiel said, as he settled in place. He was still wearing his blue Gas-n-Sip vest, and the back of the seat felt cold and rigid, much unlike soft leather of the Impala.

The driver giggled.

“That’s an odd outfit for a hard day’s night, eh?”

Deep in thought, Castiel barely heard the question. “What?”

“Your vest. Looks like a uniform.”

“It is,” Castiel said.

“And?”

“A client forgot something at the store. I was asked to return it.” Castiel caught a suspicious glance the driver gave him, but didn’t elaborate. He was starting to regret he’d got into this truck and got involved into a conversation he never wanted to have. Fallen or not, he told himself, I don’t have to talk to curious strangers.

The yellow motel sign was already gleaming a short way ahead.

“All right, then…” The driver frowned and pulled over. “Enjoy your time.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said as he opened the door, “you too.”

He didn’t give the driver a high-five and jumped to the ground.

The motel seemed having a busy night: the parking lot was nearly full. Moving casually, Castiel walked around it, looking at cars and the neon lights reflected in their windshields. Occasionally he stopped as though he was about to meet someone. In his bright blue vest, he was like a neon sign himself, clearly seen even in the dark and drawing excessive attention. He had some awkward explanation ready at his tongue, but hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

He found Dean’s car parked at the far end of the long motel building. The Impala was facing a room door, nearly hitting it, its rear was crossing the marking cornerwise, as if the car had been left in a great hurry. The bumper and fenders were cruddy. This was strange, Castiel thought, with Dean’s perpetual addiction to this car, he could forget to wash his own face, but the Impala was always shining and well cared for. Castiel pulled the door handle to check if the car was locked. With a slight relief, he found it was. Dean didn’t care to park it neatly, but if he’d had enough strength to lock the door, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

Castiel rounded the car and stopped outside Dean’s room. The door was shut. He knocked carefully and waited, leaning forward to catch any possible sound from inside. Nothing followed— no voice, no steps, no movement. Castiel pressed his ear to the door. Dean could be asleep or taking a shower, he might have just missed the knock as he wasn’t expecting anyone. Castiel knocked again (and again in vain) and then cautiously pushed the door.

It gave in easily. The key was in the keyhole, but only half turned, leaving the lock open. Castiel stepped inside softly, still unsure to intrude, and looked around.

It was an ordinary motel room with cheap furniture, striped plastic blinds and a small TV on the wall. The upper lights were off, and only a table-lamp spread its dim glow to the far corner where an armchair and the bed were placed.

And the bed wasn’t empty.

There was Dean, fully dressed, lying on his stomach with his face turned away from the light, and completely motionless as though in a deep sleep. He did not make a slightest move as Castiel entered the room, the rhythm of his breathing did not alter a single beat. Dean had always slept very lightly, he felt the vibration of the air around him when Castiel used to appear nearby, but now he didn’t even hear the muffled steps on a linoleum floor.

With a growing anxiety, Castiel came closer and leaned over the bed. His figure blocked the lamp, immersing the bed into greater darkness, but he didn’t need any light to identify what he was seeing. Red stains, as if left by a careless painter, were scattered around creased bedsheets and pillows, dirty rags looking like pieces of a torn garment, were protruding from the collar of Dean’s green jacket. And the jacket itself was soaked with blood, forming an ugly shapeless splotch in the middle of the back.

Castiel froze still, not able to move or at least take his eyes away. He was staring at Dean, gradually starting to realize that Nora was right, and Dean looked anything but okay. The injuries were real, and what seemed an unusually oblivious sleep, was in fact unconsciousness caused by pain or fever or both.

Slowly, reluctantly, he was noticing other things he had missed at first sight— like how pale Dean’s face was. His wet hair glued to his forehead. His troubled breathing. Some other small rags (obviously made from the same garment), all red from blood, stuck under the pillow. Dean’s car keys and gun on the bedside table, in full sight. Heavy brown boots he didn’t take off. No usual duffle bag and no trace of any food or drink in the room.

Just getting here had taken all his energy, Castiel thought, and there was simply nothing left.

“Dean,” he called and repeated, now a whisper, “Dean…”

Dean didn’t answer. Before Castiel realized what he was doing, he reached out holding two fingers together in a healing gesture— a rapid, well-known, instinctive gesture he probably had repeated a million times— when his memory struck him. He stopped an inch from Dean’s head.

Castiel could not heal humans any more.

And he was unable to help Dean.

Dean suddenly stirred in the bed. Castiel bent closer just in time to catch his words, hoarse and barely perceptible, “I’m fine, Sammy… Don’t call Dad…”

 

#

Dean had long gone silent, but Castiel was still watching him intensely. Dean wasn’t speaking to him, obviously, he even didn’t even see who was there and yet he was trying to say he was fine. Which of course was a lie, but at least he could talk.

Though relieving, this actually wasn’t any help. Castiel knew he was totally useless in healing— the proper healing— and he didn’t have even a vaguest idea of how humans cured each other.

He had to think of something.

He really had to, but his mind was misty and thoughts got strangely mixed up. It was somehow very hard to concentrate, and Castiel took a few deep breaths to get a grip on himself, wondering if it was normal for the humans to have such issues.

Still looking at Dean, he moved a chair closer to the bed and sat down. His knowledge of living as a human suddenly felt very limited. Everything he’d seen and experienced himself, things he’d managed to learn and those he’d just started to explore— all of that appeared worthless now, as it couldn’t bring Castiel a hint on how to help Dean. It wasn’t even clear what had happened and how bad it was.

He found the chaos in his mind was slowly starting to disappear. An action plan was not yet set, but at least it was forming with two first steps already in place: find out what Dean’s injuries were and then act accordingly.

Castiel gave this thought another minute and then got up. His plan should work.

First, he took off his blue vest and put it, folded neatly, on the back of an armchair. A nametag attached to it blinked in the dark, and Castiel turned the bundle upside down.

Dean’s body was spread across the bed, arms apart, fists clenched. His jacket wasn’t fastened, and Castiel could see its loose edges showing under the sides. It shouldn’t be a problem to take it off, he told himself, he just had to be careful and not disturb Dean more than he needed. He would start from the collar and pull the whole thing down, and then he’d only have to set free the arms. Easy. Should be easy, anyway.

With a little hesitation, Castiel rested his knee on the bed. Even before, when he hadn’t been fallen, he didn’t touch Dean very often, probably not more than a few times ever. It was always on purpose (good or bad), but never felt anything specific— actually as an angel Castiel wasn’t supposed to feel anything at all— but, he realized, now it was a bit different. A bit awkward. Perhaps, his feelings got altered since Castiel became human, or maybe it should have felt embarrassing to touch another person against his will— he didn’t know. His hands were still an inch from Dean’s collar, shaking inadvertently.

Maybe he was lucky that Dean wasn’t fully awake.

Castiel gripped the fabric of the collar and started pulling it aside, very slowly, with the greatest possible care. He took if off one shoulder, then freed the other. The wrinkled green jacket was now across Dean’s back, not going further down because of the arms. Castiel took the left cuff that was closer to him and pulled the sleeve down, slightly lifting Dean’s arm. This arm, so strong and fast at better times, was now frail and lifeless, and Castiel bit his lip at the sight. He was glad no one saw his face at this moment.

The cuff was unfastened like the rest of the jacket, but when it reached the fist, it got too tight. Castiel stopped, then pulled harder, trying to squeeze it through.

Dean flinched and groaned. Apparently, the jacket had stretched over his back too close, causing pain, and Castiel didn’t notice the danger.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he muttered, “I’ll try to be more careful.”

Cursing himself, he cautiously unclenched Dean’s fists, one after another, setting them straight finger by finger. When both palms were loose, he pulled the cuffs again, pausing each second and glancing at Dean, afraid to hear another groan.

When the jacket was finally off, Castiel was sweating and panting as if after a long run. While catching his breath, he just stood beside the bed, staring at Dean’s jacket in his hands, and not daring to look at what it had been hiding. An ugly, disgusting fear that he would be unable to help was back inside him, the feeling of uselessness he almost managed to forget working for Nora. Anticipation of another failure sent shivers down his back.

If only it happened before, back when Castiel had been an angel, Dean would be cured in less than a second. He wouldn’t be dressed in a blood soaked jacket and dirty boots, like a homeless person. And he wouldn’t be groaning on a motel bed. He would be fine (not Winchester fine, but really fine), he would be grinning and joking, and calling Sam, and driving his Impala back to Kansas. If only it happened before.

Castiel closed his eyes for a second. He went on imagining the picture he’d drawn in his head. The lively image of Dean in the Impala soon changed to a gas station where this Dean-from-a-dream might have stopped. It was a Gas-n-Sip one, in fact, _the_ Gas-n-Sip where Castiel now worked.

If it happened before, Castiel would never have been there. Dean’s lost cell phone would still be resting in the counter drawer, and Dean would be all alone at the motel.

The bright image dissolved immediately into imaginary air, bringing Castiel back to reality. Dream time was over, he had more important things to do.

He put Dean’s jacket away and moved the table-lamp closer to the edge, getting all possible light. Then he bent over the bed.

It took him some time to remove the pieces of cloth and a bigger rag (that presumably used to be a towel from a motel bathroom) from Dean’s neck and sides. The cloth was still wet with blood, and Castiel didn’t have to tear it off with effort, but this time he was determined to work very carefully, so he was taking the layers one by one. Finally, all the fabric was gone, and Dean’s back left fully uncovered.

There were two long ragged gashes, crossing the back from the right shoulder to the left side, dark with dried up blood at the edges, and slightly bleeding inside. The skin around them was red and swollen, all covered with blood stains, where Dean had put his improvised bandages.

_Which monster did that to you, Dean?_

Castiel swallowed and dared a light touch between the gashes. The skin there was incredibly hot, as if it was burning inside, and Castiel abruptly drew his hand back.

This wasn’t worse than Hell, he thought, but it was pretty close.

He looked at the injuries again. Dean had tried to clean or cover them with what he had (Castiel had seen someone doing that in his first homeless camp after the falling), but failed to reach his back properly. No one would probably manage that, as all human bodies had ridiculous limitations in flexibility, and Dean’s wasn’t any exception. Just unlike the others, he wouldn't seek out any help. He didn’t even visit the hospital— which would be the first decision of ninety-nine point nine per cent of humans— because Dean had always hated hospitals. He’d better hate something else, Castiel thought testily, something less critical to staying alive.

The gashes appeared fresh, though, maybe just a few hours old, and they weren’t deep enough to hurt the internal organs. Castiel knew Dean’s body to the last atom, and even without any medical knowledge he could tell these wounds were not fatal. But as they had been left unhealed, it ended up with all this swelling and heat. And a lot of pain.

Dean’s hand moved slightly, grabbing a bed-sheet. His body tightened, he gasped for air and tried to raise his head. But even this tiny effort was beyond his capability, and the next moment he sank back with another muffled groan. Castiel brought a clean damp towel from the bathroom to replace the bloodied rags he had removed from Dean’s back, and took off Dean’s heavy boots. Then he took a blanket, covered Dean to the waist and stepped back.

He had no idea what to do next.

The phone he’d brought with him was still in his jeans pocket. What would Dean do if he were awake? Would he ask to call Sam? As Sam wasn’t here, he was unlikely well enough for the battle. Would it be appropriate to disturb him? He would hardly advise something over the phone, he knew all too well how powerless (now) and socially awkward (always) Castiel was, so it just wouldn’t make sense to give him instructions. Sam would rather rush out to Idaho himself, but it was nearly a thousand-mile journey. He would reach Rexford no earlier than tomorrow afternoon, and without help, Dean could get much worse by then.

_I’m fine, Sammy._

No, Dean would not want that. His endless care for his younger brother, well-hidden under layers of jokes, would protect Sam against it. He’d try to cope by himself— as he always did.

He just needed a little help, and he would cope.

At this thought, Castiel took Dean’s phone, switched it off and placed it screen down on the bedside table.


	3. Chapter 3

At half past nine, Dean was still asleep— or rather not awake. He lay awkwardly, almost as if to prevent the wounds on his back from causing more pain, and he sometimes shivered, as if he was cold. Indeed he wasn’t, and Castiel knew that as he had touched Dean’s bare shoulder at least three times in last twenty minutes, and it was burning hot.

He finally made a decision. He took his own phone (luckily, it had some minutes left) and dialed Nora. She answered with a hurried voice, perhaps, she was busy with her daughter, and it wasn’t the best time for a call. Castiel did not care.

“I need your help,” he said.

“Steve?” Now she sounded worried. “Where are you? Something wrong at the store?”

“No—no, I hope it is not.” The store and literally anything beyond this motel room seemed strangely irrelevant now, as though it didn’t matter anymore. “It’s about Dean. He is sick and I need your help.”

For half a minute, Nora was silent.

“Steve, wait.” She cleared her throat. “Who’s Dean? You’ve never mentioned anyone by that name before. Is there something that I need to know?”

Castiel took a deep breath. Maybe he was too straightforward again. The angel habit that never did him any good.

“No, Nora, this is… this is a private affair.”

“Private. Okay.”

“Not that private,” he specified quickly, before it was too late, “Dean is my friend. From—from my previous company. We worked together, Dean and I, for a few years.”

At least, there wasn’t much lie in that. Nora gave it a thought.

“Okay. And what happened to him?”

“He… I think, he fell and he… he scratched his back with something… sharp. And his skin is very hot, I guess that’s what you call a fever.” This part wasn’t easy, but he made it. “Nora, what medicine do humans normally take?”

“Humans?” Nora repeated in surprise.

Castiel frowned, vaguely aware he’d said something wrong. Maybe there were more than just one medicine. Or maybe he had to be more precise.

“Adults,” he corrected himself, and then added, “thirty-four years old.”

“Oh, Steve,” Nora laughed softly, “sometimes you speak like an alien.”

I am an alien, Castiel thought, I am much more of an alien than you could possibly imagine. At least I was.

“I am sorry,” he said, not actually meaning it.

“That’s all right, I just… Never mind. So, the medicine. Do you have something to write on?”

“Of course,” Castiel lied. Despite everything his memory was still reliable enough to remember the medicine names, but Nora would hardly believe that.

“Okay, so please put down what I say. In block letters.” Nora paused, thinking. “Well, you definitely need Ibuprofen, spelled I-B-U-P-R-O-F-E-N, that’s the best thing I know against the fever… Is your friend still in pain?”

Castiel glanced at the bloodied sheets.

“Yes,” he said.

“Ibuprofen can help that as well. He isn’t allergic to aspirin, is he?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel said. Dean’s only allergy he had been aware of was cat hair, but aspirin was obviously not meant for that.

Nora chuckled. “Well, then you’d better take Tylenol or Acetaminophen, it’s safe. A-C-E—”

_We’re never going to finish if she continues to spell each drug_ , Castiel thought.

“I got it, Nora, thank you,” he said. “Is there anything for, um, the scratches?”

“How bad are they?”

Bad enough to make Dean Winchester pass out, Castiel whispered, not sure what to say. To him, all this was still so new and unusual— bleeding, suffering from pain, having fever— everything one could experience being mortal. His own shoulder, sliced by an angel in the bus, had hurt pretty badly, and that throbbing pain was so overwhelming that he couldn't focus properly on anything else. Although, what April did to him later was even worse. She had killed him, but Dean was still alive. And he needed help.

At this reminder, Castiel suddenly recalled a helpful term April had used.

“I think they are infected,” he said.

“That’s why he has a fever,” Nora sighed soundly. “Clean them well with hydrogen peroxide, it’s an antiseptic, and get antibiotics, like Neosporin or some compound one, they work well on that shit… Do you follow?”

Castiel nodded, then remembered Nora could not see him.

“Yes,” he said. “Do you have any idea where would be the best place to get all these?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Walmart’s still open. And, Steve…”

“What?”

“Make him drink a lot of water. As much as you can.”

“I will,” he promised and hung up.

 

#

Nora was a nice woman. Precise and professional. She gave Castiel a whole set of precise and professional instructions, and it wasn’t her fault each of them made his panic increase exponentially. The tasks he was facing now were clear and easy— for a human with money and a car. And a friend with just scratches and fever, but not a delirious hunter wounded by some unknown monster.

Maybe he should better have called an ambulance.

Castiel suppressed a sigh and went to the bathroom for water.

He couldn’t understand how he hadn’t thought of it himself— of course, after so many hours of fever, Dean was thirsty. Thirst was one of those annoying discoveries of human biology Castiel had made quite recently. He remembered well that night at the laundry when he preferred a bottle of water to clean clothes. Later, someone might have found his trench coat (with those suspicious blood stains on it) in the machine. What was it they thought of its owner? Unlikely it was something nice.

He poured a full glass of lukewarm water and smelled it. The water had a faint scent of chlorine, but it was as fresh and clear, as any tap water could be.

When he came back to the bed, Dean was stirring restlessly again. The blanket fell on the floor, its last corner caught on the boots and was hanging like a sail. Castiel knelt beside the bed and touched Dean’s shoulder.

“You have to drink it, Dean.”

Dean froze for a moment, and his muscles stiffened under Castiel’s fingers. Apparently, he was starting to wake up, or at least to hear. Still holding a glass with one hand, Castiel moved the other around Dean’s shoulder and shoved it underneath, between his chest and the bed, and tried to turn Dean to his side. At first, he pulled carefully, then harder, and harder, but the body was just too heavy to be moved that way. Castiel was about to give up and put the glass down to use both his hands (supposedly still not powerful enough), when Dean slowly lifted his left arm, bent an elbow at an odd angle, and pinned down his fist to the mattress. There he paused, as if checking how stable the position was, and then even more slowly, with a visible effort, he pushed himself off the bed, right where Castiel wanted him to turn.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said, “and now drink.”

Dean didn’t answer. Castiel could not help looking at his face— very pale, but intact. His eyes were still shut, cheeks flushed unhealthy red, the forehead was sweating. He breathed heavily, with an open mouth, and Castiel could see how dry his lips were. In fact, Dean hardly looked better than after Alastair had almost killed him, and it was painfully weird to watch him being so weak. Dean was a warrior, a soldier of the kind Castiel used to be himself— but without doubts. Never giving up, fighting to the last breath. Not ever stopping midway. He could be fighting or he could be dead, and there was no intermediate stage.

And he was silent, which was even more unusual. As long as Castiel had known him, Dean had always been talking a lot, not caring whether he was listened to or not, and he went quiet only when he fell asleep. Castiel caught himself thinking that he would not mind hearing his voice now, regardless of the subject.

He reached out to lift Dean’s head and pressed the glass to his lips.

“Drink.”

Dean winced, but after a long moment was ready to take a sip. Castiel tilted the glass slightly, helping as Dean opened his lips.

Dean drank greedily, spilling water onto the bed and himself and not paying it the slightest bit of attention. He was really thirsty, Castiel thought as he watched. Dean could have got his drink half an hour ago, if I wasn’t just standing here idly.

Dean swallowed the last gulp. As Castiel helped him to settle his head back on the pillow, he noticed that Dean’s breathing already got a bit easier, and even his skin seemed to have cooled a little. He didn’t lie down on his stomach, and Castiel took it as a good sign.

And then Dean shifted slightly and opened his eyes. His gaze was bleary, unfocused, and Castiel wasn’t sure if Dean was actually seeing him. Dean blinked at the light, and his eyelids dropped shut again.

“Cas…” he muttered, and then, “I’m fine…”

You are not, Castiel thought, you are not yet, but you will be.

He got up and took out his thin wallet. This was Nora’s small gift, presented with his first salary. ‘You’ll need it, Steve,’ she had said then, ‘working for us won’t make you rich, but even the money we pay deserves a better place than your jeans pocket.’ Castiel wasn’t so sure, as almost everything he earned was getting spent on food, water, and personal care goods— things he now needed, just as any other human. He started saving (for unclear purposes), but just recently, and he knew he wasn’t very successful at that.

His current funds amounted to twelve dollars and ninety-three cents. Castiel counted the money again, just to be sure, and got the same result. Would it be enough for three types of medicine? Even at Walmart, good drugs should have costed. He regretted he hadn’t asked Nora about the prices. For his twelve ninety-three he’d probably get just one or two, and this wasn’t an option.

He hesitated a moment, then took Dean’s jacket and started squeezing the fabric all around, feeling for money. He found the outside pockets were empty, but to his luck the inner one had two crumpled twenty-dollar bills.

_I hope, you will forgive me for this, Dean._

Castiel carefully pulled out one of the twenties and put it into his wallet (into a separate compartment, away from his own money). That made thirty-two ninety-three. He wasn’t going to spend it unless it would be absolutely necessary, but this new calculation brought him a little confidence (or perhaps not so little). With thirty-two ninety-three he felt almost rich.

He was ready for shopping.  

It was only then that he remembered Walmart was about four miles away.

Normally an acceptable walking distance (he could have made it in an hour), now it appeared too far, requiring too long a journey. He just couldn’t let it happen— and cause Dean to suffer more for such a ridiculous reason.

Castiel weighed up the options. Looking for a ride could take a while, he’d maybe have to wait for another twenty minutes or half an hour, but then it would be a less than ten-minute drive. Then the same to come back. The trip would take two hours on foot, or just one hour using a car. Even with the waiting time, it was worth trying.

As he was thinking, his gazed casually at the bedside table, where the Impala keys still were. Dean’s car was so close, just behind the wall, familiar and fast and with a full tank. It would make everything so much easier, if Castiel could take it and drive to Walmart.

Dean’s Impala. The only material object Dean ever valued in his life.

_I must be crazy,_ Castiel thought sharply, _even Sam is not allowed to touch it._

But the idea refused to leave his mind. It could save about an hour, and therefore it would help to get medicine for Dean faster. It would be nothing but a supply run without stopping anywhere but Walmart. It would be a pure necessity, a case of emergency. It would be safe as Heaven.

All these unspoken excuses did not sound reassuring. Besides, there was a more critical issue.

Castiel had never driven a car.

He’d seen Dean driving many times, and he remembered the actions quite well— Dean’s hands holding the wheel or moving the gearshift, Dean’s feet hitting the pedals, Dean’s eyes glancing in the mirror. From outside it appeared simple.

_If anything happens to this car, I’ll need much more than three types of medicine for myself._

In a single silent move, Castiel took the keys and left the room without looking back.


	4. Chapter 4

No one saw him as he left the motel room and stopped by the car with the keys hidden in his clenched fist. It was dark outside, and a little chilly with night breeze, and Castiel shivered in his striped polo sweater, too thin for this cold, but way less conspicious than the blue employee vest.

The lock clicked open, and the Impala’s driver door opened with a quiet squeak. This familiar sound brought Castiel courage he didn’t feel, of all places he found himself in recently, this car was probably the most comfortable one. Just the driver— the proper driver— was missing.

Castiel got inside and shut the door. His hands were a bit unsteady, as he was putting the key into the ignition, but it could be just the cold. It should have been cold, he told himself, as of course he wasn’t scared.

But he was. He was, in fact, getting increasingly scared as the whole plan he had plotted was coming true, all real and imminent like another Apocalypse. But the Apocalypse had never seemed to Castiel as terrifying as a four-mile drive in Dean’s car.

He started the engine and the Impala roared eagerly. She sounded incredibly loud in the hush of night, and Castiel glanced at the room door, almost ready to see Dean at the porch, shouting and swearing at him. But the door remained shut, just as Dean remained lying in his bed, helpless and barely conscious.

The thought sobered him. Castiel shifted the gear to reverse and cautiously pressed the right pedal.

The Impala moved backwards. Castiel let her go about ten feet from the motel building and hit the left pedal. Then he shifted the gear back to the drive position and hit the gas again. The car moved forward obediently and stopped when he touched the brakes. A miraculous victory.

_It is working_ , he thought wiping cold sweat from his forehead, _it really is_. _She is moving where I want her to move, and stopping when I want her to stop._

Castiel carefully shifted gear again and pulled off far enough to make a turn. The braided steering wheel felt solid and reliable in his hands, the tires shuffled softly on the paved roadway. The Impala could not hear any of his thoughts, so Castiel gave the rear-view mirror an awkward smile and drove out to the street.

He didn’t have a map or any of these navigation devices Sam used sometimes, but he had seen the Earth from above so many times, that he easily remembered the directions. Although it was as simple as navigating along the aisles at Gas-n-Sip, Castiel drove carefully, keeping the car exactly in the middle of the lane and checking the mirrors every few seconds. Road police weren’t seen in Rexford very often, but he didn’t want to take any risks.

The whole four miles to Walmart he was crawling at a snail's pace, and made it in nine minutes. One more minute he spent parking the Impala safely near the huge, brightly lit building of the Walmart store. He locked the car and checked all the doors before leaving it.

High glass doors slid open, and Castiel stepped in. He had never been in a store so tremendously large. He just didn’t have an occasion to visit one; he bought everything he needed at the Gas-n-Sip and wasn’t even considering shopping elsewhere. Walmart seemed endless, the aisles were stretching deep into the building, the other side of which Castiel couldn’t even see. His eyes caught a few signs hanging above the aisles— clothing, electronics, toys, fresh food, beverages— it looked like Walmart sold everything mankind could ever wish to buy.

He finally spotted the sign he needed and headed straight to the health department. A long aisle had its own signs attached to the shelves, and Castiel started to read them one by one, looking for the keywords stored in his memory. Acetaminophen. Neosporin. Hydrogen peroxide. These sounded like magic incantations in a language he never had known. They’d better be able to serve as curing incantations too, he thought.

“May I help you, sir?”

Castiel turned around to see a young sales associate, smiling at him in a friendly manner. The nametag read ‘Mike’.

“Yes, Mike,” Castiel said, “I need three types of medicine.” And he gave the boy the names.

Mike nodded and rushed to one of the shelves. “No prob, it’s all here,” he said, quickly browsing through a variety of small boxes and bottles. “See, right there, under the ‘Pain&Fever’ sign, we’ve got everything, all the stuff you might need… That’s just in case I’m not here next time.”

“Why are you not here next time?” Castiel asked, a little puzzled. The boy appeared helpful and professional, there was no reason to replace him.

Mike smiled. “I work shifts,” he explained. “Okay, here you go. Acetaminophen in caplets, 500mg… Don’t take too many of these, a maximum of two each four hours… Then, a 16-ounce bottle of peroxide… remember to close the lid tightly or it’s gonna fly off…” He was talking so fast Castiel barely managed to get the meaning and only tried to memorize every word. “For Neo,” the boy went on, “I’d suggest the spray with a pain reliever, if there’s a scratch or something, it’s just easier to apply and you don’t have to touch the injury… Works fine for children, by the way, if that's who it's for?”

“No,” Castiel admitted. “It’s for an adult, but I think I’ll follow your advice.” Then a thought struck him and he asked, “How much would it be? All of it?”

“Just a sec, let me see,” Mike pulled a small calculator from his pocket and started pressing buttons with incredible speed, “It totals twenty-one thirty-seven for the three. Do you need any gauze pads or tapes as well?”

Castiel didn’t know. Nora didn’t mention any of these, but she hadn’t seen Dean’s back. He frowned and looked away at the shelves, trying to find a clue there. The gauze pads, packed into neat small boxes, and shiny-white tape rolls looked much better than the ragged cloth Dean had used to cover his gashes.

“Okay,” Castiel said, “I’ll take them.”

“That’ll make it twenty-seven thirteen,” Mike calculated. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Grace, Castiel thought bitterly, in 2 oz vials, preferably low-priced.

“No, thank you.”

Mike disappeared in an instant, smiling and ready to help other customers.

Castiel glanced at his shopping basket, now finally non-empty. With these supplies (and some luck) he would do everything properly and Dean would likely even survive the process.

He headed to the cashiers. As he was moving along, his nostrils kept catching various food smells. It sometimes smelled like that at Gas-n-Sip, when Castiel was reheating frozen snacks, but the variety of scents in Walmart was astonishing. His own last meal today was a sandwich for lunch, and suddenly Castiel realized how hungry he was. And Dean hadn’t eaten anything either— at least in the last few hours. Castiel stopped abruptly and went back to the food aisles.

Late customers hustled there, rushing among the shelves, grasping groceries. A woman with a fully loaded cart nearly knocked Castiel down without even noticing it. It was weird to see so many hungry people so late in the evening.

Castiel came to the canned food and soup section. He wasn’t sure which Dean preferred, so he took two flavors, a chicken and a tomato with rice, just to be on the safe side. Soup was not Dean’s favorite meal, but it would give him some of the strength he needed so much.

Castiel checked his basket again. Having two cans of soup in it actually weighed more, and it was a pleasant burden. Castiel stopped for a moment to calculate his expenses. With the soups, he was going to pay thirty-one thirteen. The symmetrical number looked somehow appealing, as he imagined seeing it on a cashier’s screen.

And he still had some money left.

Perhaps, he should buy a burrito for Dean as well. Burritos tasted good and were substantial, and Dean liked them. If they had the cheap ones Castiel used to buy for himself (beef and green beans, priced ninety-nine cents), he would fit into his tiny budget.

The choice of burritos at Walmart turned out to be much larger than at Gas-n-Sip. It seemed ridiculously large, truth be told, as it was hard to imagine someone having such varied tastes. It took Castiel several moments to just to look over the variety of sizes and fillings. Luckily, his burritos were here too, along with more expensive ones. The price was eighty-eight cents.

Eleven cents cheaper than at Gas-n-Sip!

Another quick calculation revealed the possibility to take two, not just one. Dean would have his, and Castiel could eat the other (of course if Dean would be fine with one). Unbelievable luck.

Castiel already reached out to take the burritos from the shelf, when an older lady hurriedly leaned over and grabbed them first. Castiel’s hand hovered at the empty place— there were no more left.

“Sorry,” the lady said with an apologetic smile, “these are my nephews’ favorites.”

Castiel stared at her, unable to hide how upset he was.

“Wouldn’t your nephew be all right with one?”

“I’ve got two nephews, not one,” the lady said, “so you see…” She didn’t finish but her point was clear. “Why don’t you take another one?”

_Because I don’t have enough money._

Castiel averted his gaze. “Of course.”

As he watched the lady walking away with his two burritos in her cart, he momentarily pictured her lying on the floor, and the cart rolling away unattended. That’s what would have happened before, if he still had his angel powers. He wouldn’t even hesitate. The lady would be cast into a deep sleep by just one slight touch of his fingers, and he would have two burritos for Dean and himself.

He felt he wanted to leave immediately, just disappear from this store with its ridiculous prices and greedy ladies, away from these humiliating mental calculations that made him sick.

But he knew he couldn’t do even that.

Without looking at the shelf, he picked up one burrito at random and went straight to the cashiers.


	5. Chapter 5

He parked the Impala near the motel as smoothly and neatly as he could, and carefully locked the door. The car was fine and safe, and quite surprisingly Castiel was fine and safe too. On his way back he even dared to increase his speed to forty miles per hour.

He was away for fifty-five minutes flat. Not bad for an alien.

Like before, Dean didn’t notice him coming in. Castiel approached, the grocery bag still clutched in his hands, and knelt to have a closer look.

Dean was laying on his stomach again, but now facing the lamp, not the wall. Although he appeared to be sleeping, he wasn’t relaxed: his expression was tense, eyes and lips shut tightly, eyebrows drawn in a furrow. Deep shadows around his lower eyelids (clearly not formed by just the angle of the light) looked like dusty blurs on a paper-white skin. And like before, Dean wasn’t moving. Even his left arm, dangling limply from the bed, was utterly still.

Castiel took the drugs he bought out from the bag and put everything on the bedside table. He was vague about the order in which these should have been administered, and he hesitated a moment before setting the bottles appropriately. Logic told him that the cause needed to be treated prior to the effect, meaning he had to cleanse the wounds first, but wouldn’t it be too painful? Dean could stand the pain, but it didn’t feel right to make him suffer for the sake of following the stupid rules someone had set up. He’d already had enough of that. If there were rules, Castiel thought, they would have to be broken no matter what. It wasn’t the first time, anyway.

He brought another glass of water to Dean, opened the plastic bottle with acetaminophen and took out two white pills.

“Dean,” he called, “wake up.” No reply or movement followed. Still holding the pills in his palm, Castiel touched Dean’s cheek lightly. “You have to take this medicine. Open your mouth.”

At first nothing happened again, and Castiel was about to say something else, but then, very slowly, Dean opened his eyes— still bleary and too bright with fever— and glanced up.

“Cas?” he mumbled. “Is this… really you… or I’m… dreamin’ again?”

“It’s me, Dean,” Castiel said hastily. “Open your mouth and swallow this.”

He moved his open palm closer to Dean’s lips. They looked very dry and were cracked at the corners. Dean opened them just slightly, but instead of taking the pills he husked, “The hell’s that?”

Sometimes Dean could be very stubborn, much more than Castiel was able to tolerate right now. “Painkiller. You must swallow it. Here’s the water.” The explanation seemed sufficient, and Castiel could not think of how else to convince Dean to obey. It had never been easy, to make him do something he didn’t want to, so after a second thought Castiel added, “Don’t be so assy, Dean.”

Dean’s lips stretched into a crooked grin, “Shitty… curse…” he said as he finally opened his mouth.

As Castiel fed him the pills and a full glass of water, something that felt like a huge wave of relief soothed him entirely. For a long moment he cherished his triumph, his first little victory over the circumstances in general and one stubborn man in particular. He knew he looked stupid gazing at an empty glass in one hand and a tiny wet spot left by Dean’s tongue on the other, but he didn’t care. He’d seen overjoyed humans before— as those Gas-n-Sip customers who had got the lucky lottery tickets— but he had never experienced it himself. Now he felt he understood them much better. Tonight, his own ‘give-Dean-the-medicine’ ticket definitely won a jackpot.

With the last sip of water, Dean fell back into a deep sleep. Castiel watched him briefly to make sure he wouldn’t choke due to the water, then got up and went to the bathroom to refill the glass.

He guessed he had to wait until the drugs would start working, but he had no clue how long that would be. To keep himself busy, he gathered all dirty rags from the floor and put them away (the motel towel which used to be white was no longer recognizable, so it joined the rest of the rags). The green jacket, however, was not damaged, except for the blood stains on the back. Castiel examined it thoroughly again, then filled the sink and drowned the jacket in the cold water. It was back in Emory Park, Iowa, when a woman at the laundry showed him that trick, seeing Castiel fighting with his shirt sleeve covered with suspicious brown stains. To his great surprise, cold water and a bit of soap helped to remove them quite efficiently. There remained a vague darkened area only visible in the daylight, but the shirt wasn’t ruined. Castiel remembered the water advice for the future, just in case he needed to wash the blood off again. With the warding tattoos he had on his skin, he wasn’t such an easy target as before, but he had to admit he’d been found twice already. The first time he was wounded, the second— stabbed to death. Although he was resurrected shortly after, what April had done then, would be easily done again, and not necessarily by an angel.

Castiel leaned on the sink with both hands and looked in the mirror. He suddenly caught himself thinking how weird that scene with April had been. Somewhere in the depths of his memory there still was a very clear recollection of himself dying with an angel blade in his chest. He had felt it physically, his life sliding out of his human body, his whole entity longing for Heaven. These memories were so real that they sometimes made him wake up in the middle of the night to find himself gasping with horror. Usually it faded after several minutes, and he drowned into sleep again, feeling nothing but a sleeping bag enveloping his body, as reassuring as a friend’s hand on a shoulder. But he never understood completely about April bringing him back at Dean’s promise to let her go. The latter was such a ridiculously obvious lie, that even Castiel himself would not believe it, and he failed to guess what made April do the opposite. In fact, she had not only brought him back, but also healed all the wounds on his body, all the torture marks and even the cut on the shoulder which hadn’t been her fault. This excessive effort (and the confusion on Dean's face as well) appeared strange. Castiel remembered he had wanted to ask Dean about it later, when the time and place would be more convenient, but this ‘later’ never happened.

Maybe he would ask when Dean woke up.

It was now a while after Dean had taken the medicine, and Castiel figured he should go back. He drank some water, then washed his hands with a lot of soap and left the bathroom.

As he approached, he saw Dean stirring restlessly in bed, as if trying to find a safe position. The towel from his back slid down, and Castiel could see some fresh blood surfacing from the gashes.

“I need you to lie still, Dean,” he said as he opened a bottle of peroxide and sat down on the bedside.

Dean made an unintelligible sound, then exhaled and gingerly held still. Castiel took it as approval to go on and poured some liquid on Dean’s back, right around the lacerations. Peroxide ran over the skin, turning white and leaving tiny bubbles where it met blood, and hissed quietly as it reached the open gashes.

Dean screamed.

His voice was hoarse and low, almost unfamiliar. His whole body twisted as he tried to lift himself up and hide away, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white.

“It shouldn’t hurt this much,” Castiel muttered, to calm himself down rather than to reach Dean, who was hardly even listening. Apparently, the painkillers weren’t that powerful, or maybe it was the infection that still caused pain despite the medication. “Don’t twitch.”

Dean flinched again, breathing heavily. “G’way…”

_Not this time, Dean._

Castiel took a few gauze pads from the box and wiped Dean’s back carefully, avoiding the swollen edges of the wounds. It wasn’t perfectly clean, but it was much cleaner than before. Castiel looked at his work and smiled to himself, thinking about how his cleaning skills he had learnt at the store suddenly became useful.

Encouraged, he turned away to reach for the antibiotic. As he pressed the tab and the first drops of liquid touched Dean’s skin, his left arm suddenly swung up, his fist barely missing Castiel’s ribs. Dean was trying to hit blindly, without aiming or seeing where the blow was going. Although barely understanding what he was doing, the next moment he turned slightly and began to kick like a wild horse. After several fierce efforts, his knee eventually hit Castiel’s right elbow, sending the spray can flying over the bed.

Castiel muffled a curse in Enochian. This very old habit, normally well-hidden, surfaced sometimes, when he was too tired or too angry to control himself. It was relatively safe, as humans never understood a word, but a swearing angel was the worst possible carrier of the celestial will, and usually Castiel tried his best to avoid such improper behavior. This worked fine under normal circumstances— which did not include being kicked by a human.

He felt a blind anger rising, burning, growing inside him, as imminent as a rising sun, coming from somewhere in his abdomen, and then higher and higher in his chest and throat. Castiel had almost forgotten he could be that angry, but either he thought of himself as above such emotion, or it was just his tricky memory that remembered only the bright side of things— he had no idea. He knew nothing except that hidden, dark, horrifying part of him was steadily taking over. With Dean fighting him unconsciously, and a scary variety of Enochian curses slipping from Castiel’s own tongue, it suddenly seemed there had been no falling, no betrayal, no lost grace, and no Gas-n-Sip. It felt like he was a soldier in the middle of the battle, a ruthless warrior knowing no mercy. Like someone he used to be.

Castiel stood up and picked up the can from the floor, clenching it in his hand as a weapon. Dean got quiet for a moment, so Castiel used it to press his knee to Dean’s hips, and his left hand to Dean’s left arm, pinning him to the bed, as if he was a giant butterfly in a museum display. Dean growled and twitched, trying to escape, and hissed with pain as he failed.

“I told you to lie still,” Castiel heard himself saying. He could hardly believe it was his voice, so menacing and harsh, and wondered momentarily if Dean remembered it could sound like that. _I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in._ Five years ago, he could actually do it, although he had never intended to.

Wary of losing his combative mood, Castiel aimed the spray hole at the gashes where the traces of white peroxide bubbles were still visible, and pressed the tab firmly. He moved the can up and down a few times, applying the medicine and entirely ignoring the weak resistance the body beneath him showed.

It felt both ridiculous and sad, Castiel thought, this fighting Dean back for the his own sake, holding him tight to help. It had happened before, and more than once, when Dean still wanted Castiel around. He probably didn’t anymore, but he had no choice.  

Still keeping his grip on Dean’s arm, Castiel took a few more gauze pads and wiped away the excess liquid, that was dripping onto the bedsheets. These might need to be changed later, as the fabric was more red than white, but Castiel decided to let Dean rest for a while before disturbing him again. Dean gave up and stopped fighting a couple of minutes ago, and was only breathing shallowly, with little gasps through clenched teeth. He definitely deserved his rest.

Castiel studied the results of his work again. The wounds looked clean and did not bleed, and although the swelling was still there, it didn't look as disastrous as before. Sutures would have helped, but Castiel had neither a thread, nor the skill to use it, so he covered the open wounds with sterile gauze and taped it down at the edges.

He felt totally exhausted. His mouth was dry, his eyelids got heavy and were threatening to close any second. It was after midnight, and normally by that time Castiel would be long asleep, hidden in his corner behind the tool locker, with a shabby sleeping bag pressed to his cheek and a chilly draft from the doorstep rumpling his hair. In his earlier human days, Castiel had tried to do without sleep at all, but it had never worked out— after too many hours of being awake he was feeling too light-headed and his vision got blurry due to fatigue. He could usually stay awake for twenty hours safely, more or less, but he had already been awake and busy for eighteen.

Perhaps, he could afford a little sleep, he told himself hesitantly. Just have a quick nap to keep his focus. He'd done everything he could for the moment. He had nothing else to do except to wait and watch.

Castiel set an alarm-clock on his cell phone for three and a half hours, when he had to give Dean his pills again at 4am, and moved the chair closer to the bed.

 _Ready to guard the sleep of the just_ , he grinned to himself, as he sat down with his hands in his lap.

A moment later he rose again, picked up the blanket and covered Dean thoroughly from the ankles to the neck.


	6. Chapter 6

His nap turned out to be very quick, much quicker than he'd expected. When Castiel opened his eyes, it felt like he’d just closed them a minute ago. However, it was two am on his cell phone clock. He had more than one hour of sleep. Not so bad.

The old lady’s nephews (plural, not single) had already had their burrito dinner and were probably sleeping peacefully, not bothered by anything but happy child dreams. When Castiel had been an angel, he had occasionally looked into some of them— innocent, pure, and naïve as any dream of a halcyon youth. No nightmares, no monsters, no evil. No Hell.

He looked at Dean who was tossing and turning in his bed, frowning, still half-asleep, but yet making small worried sounds. His forehead was shiny and wet with sweat, his whole body was shivering. Castiel stood up.

The blanket was down on the floor again, but the gauze and tape were surprisingly in place. With a relieved sigh, Castiel ensured there was no fresh blood anywhere. He caught a rare moment when Dean was still and touched him on the forehead— just from habit— to find it was much cooler, much closer to a normal temperature.

“So cold...” Dean murmured, hardly heard from the pillow. “S’cold here, Cas...”

The motel room was not heated, but it wasn’t that cold, of course. Apparently, Dean’s fever was going down.

“You should keep that blanket on,” Castiel advised.

Dean lifted his head slightly to look sideways. “T’was hot.”

The usual contrariness of humans, Castiel thought, an undying readiness to sacrifice a life and total inability to stand a little discomfort. He took a glass of water and handed it to Dean. “Drink.”

With effort, Dean managed to prop himself up on his elbow. He drank in silence, his teeth clattering against the rim of the glass. When he finished, the shivering became so severe that Dean’s arm gave way, and he collapsed onto the bed. As Castiel was putting the blanket back, he suppressed the urge to catch Dean’s shoulders and hold them tight long enough to stop that shivering, concerned that it felt more like rough, unhealthy seizures. Instead, he brought another blanket from the closet and placed it on top of the first one.

“Is it better?” he asked.

“Yeah... Thanks.”

“Good. Now sleep.”

It felt rather weird— all of that. Issuing Dean the orders, hearing his grunted replies, seeing him obeying. A blind admiring the dance of a cripple. Dean would appreciate the irony of that, if he could.

Watching Dean falling asleep again, Castiel rubbed his eyes. He was still a little drowsy from his interrupted sleep, and doubted he’d wake up in time, even with the alarm-clock. He took a moment to glance at the chair, too appealing to be sat on again and too comfortable for someone who had to sleep lightly and wake up in less than two hours. Now that Dean was getting better, Castiel had to be particularly careful not to miss the proper medicine time.

He moved the chair away and sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning his back against the middle of the bed, and closed his eyes.

He was tired and hungry. The first didn’t appear to be a big deal (he was really lucky to have a day off next day), but the second... After Walmart, he had just a few cents left, and no clear way to survive till Monday, when his salary was due. He could probably ask Nora to make it Sunday, but she wouldn’t go as far as Saturday. How long can a human go without food? His personal experience told him that two days was nearly a maximum, if one could spend them in a quiet way, not wasting energy. Would serving at the counter pass for quiet? _Not on a weekend,_ he remembered, _when all of sudden the whole world realizes its absolutely urgent needs._

He could, of course, ask Dean. Apart from usual credit cards, there were at least twenty dollars in cash left, and it would be a significant help. A great help, even. But... But asking Dean would also mean confessing that Castiel didn’t have anything of his own, admitting the failure of being a confident, self-sufficient human that he had tried to be. Of all his failures, this one, for some reason, seemed the most shameful. To win at stopping the Apocalypse— and to lose at something so ordinary as living the life of millions of humans that he had watched from above for so long— what could be more hateful? Hearing Dean mock him?

The thought became painful. Asking Dean was certainly the very last option.

Castiel sighed. He’d have to think about it later. It appeared unlikely he would have any useful ideas right now.

He turned his head to check on Dean, but everything looked all right. Dean was asleep and breathing evenly, his cheeks were not as flushed as before, and the wrinkle between his eyebrows vanished. The sharper pain must have stopped, and Dean was as relaxed as he normally used to be when he slept without nightmares. Which, by the way, wasn’t very often.

Was Dean realizing who happened to be with him? Perhaps, now he already had. He even called Castiel by name a few times. And didn’t ask him to leave, at least not literally. Maybe he’d ask in the morning.

Castiel took out his cell to check the time. It was half past two, still too early for the pills. He grabbed the yellow bottle from the bedside table and looked at the words printed on it, promising fast pain and fever relief. He’d heard before that advertising wasn’t always honest, and wondered what kind of truth this medicine label could hide. Was it curing just partly? Only the pain or only the fever? How fast was fast, a few hours or a day? It was so hard to guess offhand, so very complicated. Like many other things Castiel had to deal with now— basic human things, where all his millennia of knowledge was useless. _I have a good chance,_ he thought bitterly, _to become the first human who had known all the languages of the world and died of hunger._

He had to stop thinking like that, but he couldn’t force himself to. He knew it could be easier if he’d fallen somewhere else, somewhere more appropriate. Jerusalem. The Vatican City. Istanbul. Places where one’s identity for sure didn’t come first. Perhaps he could find a job there, at some museum or library. Not that he didn’t value his job at Gas-n-Sip. Ultimately, he was indeed helping people. He just felt he was still able to help more.

He thought of the Library of Alexandria that he happened to have visited a few times. He recalled rippled columns supporting a ceiling so high and walls so wide that Castiel’s true form (including the wings) wasn’t reaching it. Tall windows and arched doors were bringing the light to the darkest corners, thousands of priceless scrolls rested on their shelves in impeccable order— the whole building then seemed to him more a Heavenly formation than a human craft. It would be nice to belong to a place like this, even something much less grand. But all of them were way too far from Rexford, Idaho, and from other cities and states, and from this country in general. And too far from everything else.

_When you cannot fly, the distances begin to matter._

Still thinking of books and wings, he fell asleep with the drug bottle in one hand, and his cell phone in the other.

 

#

Castiel heard Dean’s voice and felt a hand painfully gripping his shoulder at the same time. Or maybe the voice came first.

“Don’t you dare, Cas... Don’t you dare! Dammit, man, I mean it. Anything but that!”

Castiel looked up. Dean was lying on his side, half-wrapped in the blanket that was tucked closely against his chest, as if he was still cold. He blinked a bit too often, but his eyes were open and very clear, and he was staring at Castiel with an oddly mixed expression of grief and worry.

“Dean, what are you talking about?”

With his free hand, Dean pointed at the yellow bottle. “This,” he said. “Gimme that crap, or I’ll take it myself.”

“You shouldn’t get up,” Castiel objected, still failing to understand what was going on. “You’re sick.”

“Yeah, and if I fall, it’s gonna be your fault.”

“This is blackmail, Dean,” Castiel sighed and shifted on the floor, stretching out his legs. They were stiff and ached at the joints. His neck and lower back were sore. He rubbed them to loosen the muscles, and his palm ran over the day’s stubble with an ugly scratching sound. “So what’s the matter?”

Dean kept staring at him for a moment, squinting and frowning. “It’s not like you are... I just wanted to make sure... You don’t need these pills, do you?”

“Of course, I don’t,” Castiel said. “You do.” Dean’s eyes widened in surprise, and Castiel added, “You’ve taken them already and you’ll have to take them again at four o’clock. It’s...” he checked his phone, “it’s about time.”

Dean didn’t look convinced. “So you sure you haven’t... given them a try?”

“I’m certain, Dean. Why would I?”

“Well, you know... Kinda just to taste?”

“Are the pills tasty?” Castiel asked. He’d never heard drugs could have any pleasing taste, but now he was curious to find out. “Should I have—”

“No!” Dean said it so hastily that his voice broke, and he had to clear his throat before he could go on. When he spoke, his voice was flat and unemotional, “No, you shouldn’t, Cas. You should never try any, uh, any of that stuff... Unless you’re sick then it’s okay, but drugs... They can do things to you... Bad things.”

Castiel met his gaze. He understood.

“I know, Dean,” he said, “I’m not that new to life.” He forced out a smile to make it even more reassuring, but at that Dean suddenly flinched and closed his eyes. His face, lit by a distant light, seemed very pale. “What’s wrong? It hurts?”

“No. It—it just reminded me of something...” Dean finally set Castiel’s shoulder free. His eyes were shut tight, eyelids trembling as though he was trying to build a wall against some bad memories. He blew out a harsh breath. “Sorry, Cas, but you were sitting here like that, and... You looked so much like—like that other you... The twenty-fourteen you. And it’s the last dream I’d like to see again.”

It was Zachariah, Castiel thought, his rogue brother who had shown Dean something from the future in attempt to make him say yes to Michael back in two thousand and nine. Dean had never mentioned any details from that event, but whatever it had been, Castiel didn’t forget his expression that night. _Don’t ever change_ , Dean had said then, without the slightest trace of his usual sarcasm. Apparently, he didn’t like what he’d seen.

For a moment, Castiel wondered what could had been worse than his present state. Fallen, powerless, lost. A used-to-be. What kind of future did he have now? Whatever it was, it was probably going to be very short.

“You have to take your pills,” he said, reaching out for the glass of water.

Dean gave him a short glance, then took the pills and swallowed them quickly. He drank his water and immediately asked for more. When the second glass was empty, Dean turned onto his stomach, resting his chin on crossed arms.

“Sorry I woke you up,” he said a bit awkwardly. “Forgot you need sleep.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not, but... If you wanna go on, I’m fine here, I really am. You don’t have to watch me, Cas.”

There it was, Castiel thought, the word was out. Dean didn’t want him around. Just as expected. The empty glass he was still holding in his hand suddenly felt very heavy, and Castiel placed it back to the table carefully before he dropped it.

“Of course, Dean,” he nodded, looking away, “I was just about to leave.”

As Castiel was saying that, out of the corner of his eye, he caught some movement on the bed, but he couldn’t make himself turn back. He knew what he would see and he didn’t need a closer look. Even less, he wanted to hear any other words and feel them hurting like a dull knife slicing him to pieces. He lost and surrendered, and he could do without sympathy. And yet he was just standing where he was, a couple of steps away from the bed, as if he’d been hit by an immobilizing spell. He had never regretted his missing wings so much.

“Cas, wait! I didn’t mean that!” From behind, Dean’s voice was loud and quite clear, not a weak whisper anymore. “I meant... Oh shit, my brain battery is too low for this... I just meant you don’t have to stay awake because of me, you... You can take a nap, uh, somewhere here, that’s if you want, ‘cause I’m gonna be okay... Don’t leave, Cas... Just please, don’t leave.”

Castiel turned around very slowly, as though the words just said, still echoing in his head, might get scared by rapid movement and disappear. Dean was half-sitting on the bed, holding himself upright with both arms, his bare chest still glittering wet with sweat. He was looking at Castiel steadily, his eyebrows curved slightly upward. Throughout their time together, Castiel had studied Dean’s expressions long enough to distinguish a hidden lie, and this wasn’t one of them.

_Lies come out easily, truth has to fight its way through._

“I’ll occupy the armchair then,” Castiel said with a dignity he didn’t really feel, “if it’s okay.”

“It’s just fine.” Dean’s lips twitched as if he was about to add something else, but instead he went on staring at Castiel expectantly, impatiently, in his typical demanding do-what-I-say style. “So?”

“What?”

“The armchair. You sitting?”

Dean didn’t want to take a risk, Castiel guessed. He had that specific stubborn look that declared it clearly. After a brief hesitation, Castiel headed for the bathroom.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, “lie down.”

“Not until you’re back.”

Dean kept his promise. When Castiel returned, Dean was still seated on the bed, a little lower than before, but he definitely wasn’t fully down. He blinked too fast and looked tired, and he sank back on the bed the same moment Castiel took his place in the armchair. However, Dean didn’t settle all at once, and it was almost funny to watch him turning his head repeatedly, lifting and putting it down at a different angle every time. It was quite obvious that Dean wanted to be able to keep an eye on the armchair. Castiel pretended he didn’t notice the trick and closed his eyes.

“Good night, Dean.”

“Night, Cas.”

For a few minutes, both of them were silent. It was rather early morning, perhaps just a couple hours before dawn. The room was still lit by a table lamp (Castiel left it on just in case), casting long unsteady shadows, and the window blinds occasionally let in glimpses of street lights. Castiel remembered he hadn’t re-set his alarm-clock for Dean's next dose of medication, and wondered if he’d wake up on time. He probably would— by force of habit. Also, given that Dean was coming back to his normal light sleeping pattern, the risk was not so great.

This sharing of responsibility, although not entirely mutual, suddenly felt reassuring. Castiel was not alone with all of this anymore, Dean didn’t mind him around, and was even cooperative— in his own original way, but Castiel had a sensation it was nearly his maximum possible degree of cooperation. From their first meeting and through the years, Dean was incredibly consistent in showing his refusal at being cared for. _Maybe Sam would have been denied even the chance to give him pills and water,_ Castiel thought with a sudden pride.

“Cas, you’re not sleeping.”

Castiel blinked and gave Dean a bewildered look. “You neither.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re asking me questions,” Castiel said.

Dean chuckled softly. “Liar.” He pulled the blanket to his shoulders and rubbed his cheek. “Promise me you’ll sleep.”

“I will,” Castiel said.

“Promise?”

Seeing no other way to finish this ridiculous argument, Castiel bowed his head solemnly, “Promise.”

“Awesome.” Dean said and immediately smiled a happy, satisfied smile of a salesman who’d just completed a profitable deal. Then he glanced at the armchair for the last time and closed his eyes.

When his face relaxed and breathing slowed down, Dean’s childish, trusting smile was still playing on his lips as though it had never left them.


	7. Chapter 7

The force of habit turned out to be not persistent enough, or just took pity on his tired body. Castiel woke up late in the morning, when the motel room was already full of sunlight, leaving bright spots on every shiny surface, identifying its presence. He heard the muffled noise of the street outside. The busy rustle of Friday traffic, distant hammering, short squeaks of opening doors. A dog barked in a room upstairs, a child gave a plaintive whine in another. The silence of the night was gone.

Next to him, inside the room, there was a noise too— a shuffle of plastic. A very familiar noise produced by familiar hands.

“I’ve Lara-Crofted the fridge,” Dean announced easily, as he went on browsing the shopping bags from Walmart, “and guess what I found? Fascinating, gorgeous, unbelievable... Food!” He giggled and added with an artificially dramatic voice, “I’m starving.”

Castiel yawned and looked around. Dean was sitting on the bed, his right arm elbow-deep in a food bag, feet down on the floor. He looked much better than the night before, he wasn’t sweating or shivering, and even had a clean plaid shirt hanging loose on his shoulders.

“What time is it?” Castiel asked.

“Ten. I’ve taken my pills two hours ago, but I’m still hungry.” Dean waved meaningfully at the microwave, “It looks older than me, but I hope it’s working.”

“I’ll reheat,” Castiel said getting up. He felt a little dizzy, and probably rose too quickly as the room was swaying, slowly, lazily, like a ship deck, and he couldn’t help swaying sideways too. The feeling was unpleasant, and Castiel took a moment to get his balance again. Luckily, Dean didn’t notice anything.

“Jeez, seriously?” Dean grinned. “You will?”

“It doesn’t take a lifetime to learn how to operate a microwave, Dean,” Castiel said. He didn’t mention that his first awkward experience happened to include a sparkling firework that had nearly ruined a microwave at the store. Later, Nora told him he didn’t have to put a metallic fork and knife (or anything else made of metal) inside the microwave along with the meal. “Would you like some soup first? There’s chicken and tomato rice, I wasn’t sure which you prefer.”

“Tomato.” Still grinning slightly, Dean looked at Castiel coming to the kitchenette. “A multidimensional celestial wave and a micro wave. What a meeting.”

“Ex-celestial,” Castiel said. “So there is only micro now.” He didn’t turn back to see Dean’s face, but silence behind him was going on for too long, and finally Castiel glanced over his shoulder. Dean was looking at his hands, rubbing them nervously.

“Sorry, Cas,” he said. “Sorry, it was a stupid joke.”

Castiel did not answer. He reheated the bowl of tomato soup, then the single burrito (without even checking the instructions on the plastic bag). When the the smell of the food filled the room, strong and overwhelming, his empty stomach growled.

“Will you join me?” Dean asked, as he settled his bowl on his knees.

“Maybe, um, later,” Castiel said. For some ridiculous reason, he didn’t want to admit he was hungry.

Dean studied him for a moment, then said, “There’s too much for me anyway.” He took a spoonful of soup, swallowed and chuckled, “Whoa, delicious... Love that crap. I mean it, Cas. Have the chicken one, it’s as good.”

“Are you sure you don’t want it?”

“Yeah, go for it.”

Castiel hesitated diplomatically, then opened the second can. He brought the soup closer to his nose and smelled it before putting it into the microwave. When he had been an angel, it had never occurred to him to smell anything, as he merely didn’t feel the need to experience them. He had no idea that scents could be so different— pleasing, disgusting, sweet, spicy, remarkable, memorable. Smelts brought out connotations of the places one had visited and the people one had met. Chicken soup had none of these, though. Maybe later it would bring a memory of Walmart.

The microwave chimed once and stopped. Castiel took out his bowl and wrapped his palms around it tighter, delighted by the generous warmth coming out of this simple white ceramic.

He missed the moment when his bowl got empty. He tried not to eat too fast, but after the few first spoonfuls, he lost control. Castiel even couldn’t remember for sure if he had used the spoon with every gulp or just drank over the rim of the bowl. He carefully placed it into the sink and turned back.

Dean was staring at him with a strange, thoughtful expression.

“What?” Castiel asked him, feeling uneasy under his gaze.

Dean blinked once and smiled, “I just thought... Maybe you could help me with this as well?” He lifted a plate with a half of burrito drifting in a small pond of sauce. “I’m really full.”

Castiel glanced at the plate, frowning inadvertently, then moved his eyes back to Dean. There was something weird in his expression, something inexplicably false, giving away more than Dean probably wanted to tell. Castiel straightened, gathering himself up.

“Thank you, Dean,” he said in a calm voice, “I’m not hungry. And... It’s only morning, you might want to finish it later.”

“Unlikely.”

Dean set the plate aside and forced a smirk, as if hiding his annoyance. He didn’t expect a refusal, Castiel guessed, it seemed natural to him to offer to share like that. Maybe he felt a little guilty for not asking before, but even then Castiel’s answer would have been the same. Even considering it was obviously the last burrito option for the immediate future, it still would have been the same. There was a distance between them, two humans, set by one of them— a distance larger than it had been between a human and an angel— and Castiel had neither the intention nor the right to close it now.

“I need to check on your back,” he said, changing the subject.

Dean winced. “It’s fine.”

“I need to check on it,” Castiel repeated. “I hope you won’t be kicking again.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, “Was I?”

“Yes.”

With a little sigh, Dean shifted on the bed, turning his back to Castiel and took off his shirt. As he moved, the bandage pulled, making him freeze and exhale sharply. “Shit...” he hissed, catching his breath, “It’s the freaking tape... Tear it off, Cas, will you?”

The tape had to be taken off, so Castiel did as he was asked. The gauze was slightly wet but not bloody, and the wounds under it looked remarkably better. The swelling was partly gone, the color of the skin was pinkish, looking more like the healthy flesh around it. It wasn’t fully healed, of course, but it certainly was much better. Castiel took the antibiotic spray and shook it up. “Ready?”

Dean nodded, “Let’s make it quick, huh?”

Castiel aimed and pressed the button, sending the spray thoroughly along the injures. Dean kept still and didn't flinch, just stiffened as the drug reached the worst areas of his wounds. Then he glanced sideways, eyes following the can traveling back to the bedside table, and finally allowed himself to relax.

“So you’ve found the first-aid kit?” he asked not turning back, his voice a bit uneven. “In the car?”

Castiel’s hand, holding a clean piece of gauze, stopped in midair. “I didn’t know you had it,” he said. The truth was spilling out too fast. “So I—I bought the medicine. And, Dean,” Castiel swallowed quickly, “I had to take some money from your pocket. I am sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I am really sorry, Dean, I just didn’t have enough money with me, and—”

Dean reached out to Castiel and gave him a light push with an elbow, “Cas. Can it.” He fell silent and straightened his back as Castiel applied new layers of gauze and tape, then he grumbled, “Hope that son of a bitch has got his wings extra crispy.”

Castiel strained, suddenly alert. “What son of a bitch?”

“Rit Zien. The crazy… Sorry, Cas, but these bastards are really sorta crazy, they—”

“I know who Rit Zien are, Dean,” Castiel said. Healing angels, the hands of mercy. “But how do _you_ know them?”

Dean took his shirt from the bed and slid one arm carefully into the sleeve. Castiel helped him with the other, still waiting for the answer.

“Had to meet one,” Dean said, “just recently.”

“So how are you still alive?” Castiel asked before he could stop himself.

“Good question,” Dean laughed softly, clearly not insulted. “He wasn’t after me. And what’s more important, he was also after a wrong victim. These college girls can be really tough, not just Twitter-bullshitting, you know that?”

Castiel didn’t know. He couldn’t even imagine humans able to overcome Rit Zien, so Dean had to tell him a relatively full version of the story. He was called to investigate some odd murders in Rexford (murders which Castiel hadn’t even heard of) and encountered one of the Rit Zien wandering on the Earth in search of pain of any kind. According to Dean, the college girl’s plan didn’t include being instantly smited to death.

“...And she was like, ‘what the hell, I’m not gonna die, not literally’!” Dean went on with a smile. “She was really kinda furious, and maybe that’s what helped us. That little bro of yours... Sorry, Cas, I mean— that asshole was pretty strong, he nearly got us nailed...” He bit his lower lip. “I fell on a garden fence, that’s where the scratches are from... The girl was yelling so loud that she, well, she distracted him, I guess... I don’t remember it very clearly, but the next thing I knew he was back on me, but I had some oil and a lighter handy, so... There’s been enough mercy here, I gotta say.”

Castiel realized he hadn’t taken a breath while Dean was talking. “Is the girl okay?”

“Guess so,” Dean shrugged. “Scared but okay. Even wanted to take me to the hospital.”

What a smart girl, Castiel thought. He already liked her. “But you refused.”

Dean shrugged. The answer was too obvious.

“You were lucky to survive. Rit Zien are very powerful,” Castiel pointed out. Meanwhile, the rest of the story still remained vague to him, and he said, “Rit Zien had never descended to the Earth before. They only healed angels and—and helped those who couldn’t be healed to pass away painlessly. They never interacted with humans. Who told you about them?”

Dean hesitated a moment, then said reluctantly, “Crowley.”

Castiel couldn’t believe it. “You asked Crowley for help on the case? Why?”

“Who else could we ask? You were gone... And while the bastard is trapped in the bunker basement, why not use him—”

This morning, news was hitting him at an increasing speed. Castiel cleared his throat.

“Just out of curiosity, Dean... Since when is Crowley trapped there?”

Dean waved indefinitely, “Since the trials... I kept him in the trunk first, back when Sam was in hospital. Then the piggie got his new home. Why?”

“Never mind.”

It really meant nothing now, Castiel told himself. It didn’t matter anymore that Crowley had already been in the basement when Sam and Dean brought Castiel to the bunker. Was this the reason why he couldn’t stay? It sounded nothing but ridiculous. He lost his grace, he wasn’t an angel, so if Crowley was up to something, and the Winchesters needed him, Castiel’s presence could not be an obstacle, moreover a threat. Powerless and trapped, Crowley wouldn’t even feel it. Strange as it was, but asking Castiel to leave was Dean’s decision.

Castiel arranged the drugs neatly on the table. “I believe you should lie down now, Dean.”

“I’m fine,” Dean objected immediately.

“Yes, so you can easily lie down.”

“You’re still the same pain in the ass,” Dean grumbled but obeyed. He stretched out on his stomach, his head on the pillow, arms spread loosely. He tried his best to hide how tired he was, but his eyes were not allowing him to. “Cas, I... Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Look, seriously... I called Sam in the morning, he was going crazy over there. He was on the phone all night, calling around. He thought I was dead. He was so sure... Never heard him so worried.” Dean’s voice was unusually quiet and slow, his eyes were fixed on the corner of the bed. He never looked up as he was talking. This conversation with Sam (which Castiel didn’t even know had happened) was probably not an easy one.

Castiel felt a prick of guilt. Someone else (Sam) had a sleepless night because of him, someone else— Sam— had to spend hours trying to reach Dean on a phone that had been switched off. There was absolutely no reasonable need for that stupid isolation. He should have called Sam, at least, he should have answered his texts. Dean would forgive him... Perhaps.

“Sam’s on some research with Kevin,” Dean said, “and he’s not okay yet, so I told him to stay home. I told him I was fine.” _I’m fine, Sammy._ “But it wasn't okay last night, Cas, you know that now. And so... So, thanks for your help, doc.” He cut off, and for a few next moments Castiel could only hear him breathing deeply, as if he couldn’t get enough air. After a while Dean asked, “How did you find me?”

Castiel wasn’t ready for this. “Oh,” he said, delaying giving his answer. “Just... Accidentally.”

Dean flashed him an angry look.

“Cas.”

He won’t drop it, Castiel realized, he needs an answer. Any answer.

“You lost your cell phone,” he said finally, “I brought it back.” It wasn’t a full truth, but it wasn’t a lie. _I’m getting better at this,_ Castiel noted to himself without any joy, _next time it’ll come out automatically_.

“Where from?”

“Nearby.” Dean was obviously going to continue his interrogation, but Castiel wasn’t in the mood to tell him anything about Gas-n-Sip, Nora, a sleeping bag in the supply closet, and the few last cents left in his wallet. “Dean, you need to rest.”

“I don’t.”

“I’m not even entering into a discussion here,” Castiel repeated someone’s phrase he once heard. “Do you think you need more pills now?”

“Not really.”

He looked as if he did. Castiel said, “I’ll bring you some water.” He grabbed the dirty dishes and placed them near the sink. He reached out to turn on the water, when Dean’s phone rang.

“Hey, Sammy,” he heard Dean saying cheerily— a little too cheerily. “Yeah, fine... Honestly. Why the hell would I be lying? Ah, well, that—that was different... I bet you do... C’mon, Sam! No. No, why? ‘Course I’m alone. You jealous? Doctor Sexy moved to Kansas. Yeah, just fascinating... Yes, Sam. Maybe tomorrow. Okay, see ya soon.”

Castiel turned on the faucet and put the glass under it. He was still holding it long after the glass got full and water started running down his hand, wetting the cuff.

 

#

Castiel left in the early evening, while Dean was asleep. The fever was almost gone, but Dean kept sleeping for the most of the day. It looked like he was trying to catch up on all of the sleep he missed in his life.

Castiel woke him up twice to re-apply the antibiotic spray and change the gauze on his back (which was actually healing at an encouraging speed). They made some small talk about Dean's recovery, but never touched anything beyond— anything important. Dean, for some reason, didn’t ask Castiel any more questions about the lost phone, and Castiel was relieved at not needing to lie. For his part, as though following an unspoken agreement, Castiel didn’t speak much either. He didn’t ask Dean why he had told Sam he’d been alone. It felt like he was a ghost (a friendly one, but still a ghost) that appeared in this motel room to be helping sick visitors at night and evaporating into the dusty air at dawn. Ghosts do not deserve to be mentioned.

This thought (rather painful, to be honest) never occurred to Castiel when he was with Dean— he was just too busy. As Dean fell asleep, Castiel tidied the room, then checked the Impala’s driver seat for any stains of blood that he could not see during the night. There were some, already dry and smeared around after more than one driver had been in the seat, and Castiel cleaned them off thoroughly with the remnants of peroxide. Dean’s green jacket came next. Even after the cold water-trick it took nearly an hour to wash away the blood completely. At the end, Castiel's hands were so cold he could barely feel them, and the skin red and itchy. He couldn’t help thinking that it would be so much easier if Dean preferred leather.

Then, as they had nothing left for lunch, he ordered some takeout food from the motel cafeteria. Although the choice was limited, the manager turned out to be very nice and agreed to charge the bill to the room. Castiel himself would not think of that option (as neither anyone who couldn’t afford the luxury of owning a credit card), so it was Dean who muttered the advice barely waking up. Grateful and encouraged, Castiel added a full pot of coffee to the order, and a sandwich for himself.

The charge-to-the-room magic worked just as fine at the reception. With his shyest and most stupid smile, making his inner self sick with disgust, Castiel asked for clean bedsheets and towels. The receptionist, another nice lady in her forties, glanced at him with such suspicion, that he felt like he was asking how to hide a corpse. With his creased sweater and day’s stubble, he indeed looked like a criminal and could not blame her. Eventually, she charged double the price and made quite a transparent hint on the purpose of new bedsheets, which Castiel ignored. When he was changing the bed, Dean grunted something about ‘non-stop room service’, but Castiel didn’t pay any attention to that either. Things just needed to be done, and done properly, so it made no sense to discuss them.

He did a lot of other stuff throughout the day, some of which he couldn’t even remember. Finally, he brought Dean’s bag from the car and found a couple of clean t-shirts and underwear that Dean might have needed later. He didn’t want to leave without making sure that Dean would have all the necessary things.

Under different circumstances, Castiel would be very proud of himself, able to manage so many human tasks almost without anyone’s help. But, as he was walking along the dark streets of Rexford and recalling that long day, he didn’t feel any pride. Everything he did for Dean appeared to be something that he just needed to do no matter what, something beyond doubt or concern, a natural and right thing to do. With Dean, it had always been like some kind of automatic response. Whatever Dean needed, it was a top priority not requiring any additional justification, and Castiel did his best to provide. He wasn’t always successful, he sometimes failed or misunderstood, or even refused to help (and he still felt very guilty for that year after Stull, when he hadn’t been answering Dean’s prayers). But nevertheless, from his first minutes in the motel room, Castiel was struck with this familiar feeling of utter oblivion regarding everyone and everything but Dean. He could never explain the exact feeling to himself. It felt like it was an ingrained within him, independent of nature, and neither the falling, nor the lost grace could change its imminent, cold power.

 _A profound bond,_ he reminded himself, _doesn’t end with the change of a trench coat to a blue vest._

He stopped at an intersection. Waiting to cross the street, he wondered if he minded this ridiculously strong addiction, this inherent inability to stay away. After all, it never brought him any good, it consistently made his own position even worse, with a tendency to end up being disastrous. He had never known any angel who’d benefited from a connection to a human, and there was no chance for him to become the first one. His own history so far was clear evidence of that.

Just out of common sense, of all the brain he still had left, he should have minded. But as the traffic light went green, Castiel realized that he didn’t. Not really.


	8. Chapter 8

“Will you ever give up disappearing like that?”

Dean appeared in the line unexpectedly, his head was hidden behind another client, a broad-shouldered man in a Stetson, till the very last moment. And now he was just standing there, facing the counter, his hand squeezing a bottle of water and his eyes squinting angrily at Castiel.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey...” Dean held his gaze at Castiel’s nametag and finished, “Steve.” He winced as he said that, as if the different name existed somewhere in a separate world and was irritating him. Perhaps he was just disappointed to find his ex-angel being as ordinary as an employee at Gas-n-Sip. “We need to talk.”

There was still an hour before the end of the shift. The day was so quiet and uneventful, that Castiel was hardly noticing time. He was working as usual— serving customers, filling the coffee pot, cleaning the floor— but was just mechanically following the usual routine. It felt weird after the day he’d spent with Dean. He slept surprisingly well the night after, with no nightmares, and in the morning his head was clear. Clear and completely empty.

Hesitating, Castiel turned to find Nora. She was already coming to them, looking curiously at Dean.

“The guy with the phone,” she said. “Or, rather, without. I remember you. Is this the friend you told me about, Steve?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “Nora—”

She smiled before he could finish the sentence. “You can leave, Steve,” she said.  “I know you started earlier today. I think I’ll cover it here.”

She looked a little tired, and Castiel remembered that Nora mentioned her daughter was sick. He wasn’t the only one who had a hard day’s night, as the truck driver called it. Easy words, sounding like a line from a song, had a very different meaning.

“Thank you,” he said.

Nora winked at him. “Take care, Steve. Last time, when I had my ex-boss visiting, we ended up near some bar fifty miles away. It was six in the morning, and I had nothing but three dollars and a paper hat.” She laughed and pointed at Dean, “So, don’t let him get you too drunk.”

Dean gave her one of those innocent smiles of a fake FBI officer, and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Although having three dollars out of nowhere sounded like a good end to the night, Castiel said okay too. He left the counter and followed Dean outside.

The Impala was parked behind the store, facing someone’s back yard. Dean rounded the car and unlocked the door. Without getting inside, he took two paper cups steaming with coffee from the dashboard, reached over the roof and gave one to Castiel. Dean didn’t say a word. His expression was bleak.

“Are you all right?” Castiel asked. This was the second time he asked Dean that question— the first had been back in Wyoming, after that unlucky encounter with Alastair. He clearly remembered the answer Dean had given him then, ‘No, thanks to you’, and was afraid to hear it again. But this time Dean said nothing like that. He nodded and smiled.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. He shifted slightly, checking his back. “Not like a hundred percent ready for another round with the Rit Zien, but it’s gonna be fine.”

“Good.”

Dean looked up. “You don’t even wanna ask how I found you?”

“Do I have to?”

“Well, I’d be flattered,” Dean grinned slightly. “Wasn’t a big job to do anyway. I don’t remember when I lost the phone, but it was the only place where I stopped that day. And then I saw your vest on the chair. So... So, that’s what you are now, Cas. A sales guy.”

“A sales associate,” Castiel specified with a tone of pride in his voice. Being a sales associate was certainly better than being dead like some of the fallen angels, or being stuck in between without a vessel like the others. Even though he wasn’t feeling that much alive, it was still better. But Dean only frowned, and Castiel glanced at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing... Nothing. It’s just…” Dean narrowed his eyes at the nametag on Castiel’s chest, “just not the place where you should be.”

“It’s a place where I’m useful.”

“Yeah, I got that, but… But there’s some other job to be done over there, you know? Better offer. Like, no salary, no social benefits and a brand new kind of shit every day. Never boring, nice team. Well, maybe not so nice… To be honest, a team of freaking jerks, but… Kinda nice anyway? You gotta try.”

“I’ve tried already, Dean.” Some odd feeling crept up inside his throat, as if the sounds were resisting against getting out. “And I don’t think—”

Dean waved dismissively, “Come on. You do, don’t you?”

_You can’t stay._

Castiel squinted at him. He hoped he would never have to say it, to go back to that evening in the bunker, but Dean left him no choice.

“You didn’t want me to stay, Dean.”

“I did. I just couldn’t tell you, but I did. I swear I did, Cas…” Dean’s voice broke, he gasped for air. Then he said, “It never felt right, you leaving like that, and I know I was such a dick—”

“Yes, you were.”

“Whoa, man! That’s new! You’ve never put it so clear.” Dean’s smile came out crooked and insincere, not reaching his eyes, as if he was trying to laugh at something he didn’t find funny. Very soon he was serious again, and there was a sudden sadness in his voice when he started to speak, “I know, Cas, and I’m sorry. I had to tell you… It was a stupid and shitty thing not to tell you. I promised Zeke to keep it a secret, and I just… I was just freaking scared to put Sam in danger. Again.”

Castiel frowned. He felt he wasn’t understanding Dean anymore.

“Sam is in danger? Why?”

Dean took a very deep breath. “‘Cause there’s an angel inside him. The one I’ve told you about. Zeke… Ezekiel.”

This was weird, _very weird_ , Castiel thought. Although he hadn’t met Ezekiel very often, even the scarce recollections he had screamed that something was wrong. Ezekiel was a good soldier and a trustworthy angel, but also had a rather simple-minded nature. The Ezekiel that Castiel had known would never insist on capturing a human vessel. He wouldn’t even think of it. “Ezekiel possessed Sam?”

Dean nodded. “I had no choice, Cas.” His expression darkened, his face, still a little pale from the recent fever, turned even whiter. “It got worse after we talked. Sam was dying— he really was. I—I made him say yes. I—”

“You were desperate,” Castiel said. “I understand.”

Dean shrugged awkwardly. “Sort of.” He focused his gaze at the shiny roof of the Impala, as though it suddenly required his full attention. “And he doesn’t know. Zeke said Sam would eject him if he knows, and if it happens, Sam would die. Damned catch 22.”

Whatever the ‘catch 22’ meant, it wasn’t good, Castiel thought. Having no choice was not an exaggeration, and Castiel could well imagine Dean’s despair in the face of it. The same sort of dark, lonely despair had forced him to make other uneasy decisions in the past— and every time added extra weight to the burden of guilt he carried over the years. Sometimes these decisions worked as planned, sometimes they saved lives, but they never worked well for Dean with his overgrown sense of responsibility.

“That morning, in Detroit, when April stabbed me,” Castiel said, breaking the silence, “I was dead, wasn’t I?”

Dean pressed his lips tight and looked away. Then he said, “Yes. Zeke brought you back. Sam doesn’t know that either, by the way.”

Even though Castiel was sympathetic to Dean's problem, the whole story was making less sense as it went on.

“And then Ezekiel asked you to send me away? Don’t you think it’s weird, Dean?”

“He said he was in danger... because of you. Because the angels were hunting you.”

“This is ridiculous, Dean. If the danger was so serious, Ezekiel could have just left me dead.” Castiel repressed a sigh. “I cannot say I would like that, but quite obviously, this was the only way to eliminate the danger completely.” Dean said nothing, and Castiel added, “Your bunker is probably the safest place on Earth, and not just for humans. I don’t see what danger he could be speaking of.”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t know, Cas. Honestly, I don’t know.”

“Ask him.”

This offer, simple and blunt, made Dean flinch as if he’d been hit. He rubbed his forehead in a quick unsteady move, then wrapped both his hands around the still full cup of coffee. “I guess you’re right,” he said at last, “I need to have a word with Zeke. Another word.”

“Please be careful.” Castiel took his coffee carefully and checked the plastic lid. He didn’t want to leave. Now, after he’d got some very important answers, leaving was probably the last thing he wanted. He just couldn’t think of a reason to stay.  “I think I should help Nora with the cleaning, so—”

Dean didn’t let him go on.

“Drive me home, Cas.”

“What?”

“Drive me,” Dean repeated in a low voice, sheering away from Castiel’s eyes, “I know you can.” For a few moments Dean was silent, and Castiel watched him standing there, with his head bent down and his arms resting on the Impala, and wondered how this strong, devoted, righteous man who’d never have admitted what a hero he was, could look so impossibly vulnerable. “It still hurts like hell,” Dean went on, “I barely made it here. Please, Cas. Will you drive me?”

Castiel brought his cup closer to his eyes. The tiny embossed letters on the lid said, ‘Caution, contents may be hot.’ He liked coffee, it was his only destructive passion— besides saying yes to Dean Winchester.

He remembered the bunker, hidden in the Lebanon suburbs, the bunker with its warded walls, separate rooms and such generous water pressure in the shower. He would have a room of his own and join the brothers at breakfasts and dinners. He could even cook something for them now— he knew the microwave thing now and a few more skills. And of course, he would help them with the rest, hunts or research, whenever his skills would be applicable. Although he didn’t have his angel powers anymore, he was still pretty good at fighting, good as a human could be. He also could work with Kevin on decryption of the tablets, or even, if there were a real need, communicate with Crowley and fetch the information virtuously hidden behind the stupid jokes. He could be useful.

But then a thought struck him. What if Dean didn’t mean that at all? He wasn’t well enough to drive himself, but what if he didn’t plan to have Castiel around once they arrived in Kansas? Dean gave no details of what would happen next, no outline of the future, no hints of reunion. Perhaps, Dean just needed a ride?

This had to be made clear.

“I will need money to get back here,” Castiel said slowly, tilting his head.

“You won’t,” Dean said. “I don’t want you to get back here, Cas, I want you to stay with us... With me and Sam. Like, all together... We just need you, man, ‘cause... ‘Cause it’s you, and you’re the family, I told you that, remember? And the family gotta stick together. No matter what.”

Dean looked up for the first time as he spoke, and Castiel stared back. Just a minute ago he was about to say he was busy, he had a job— a good job he’d found himself— and he couldn’t quit without notice, as it would be inappropriate to leave Nora alone in the shop, and he hadn’t yet taught her how to fix the tricky slushy machine. He had the whole set of words neatly laid and ready to be released. Sufficient and utterly convincing as every well-packed lie.

It was something in Dean’s eyes that made him change his mind.

“If we leave now, we’ll reach Lebanon by early morning,” he said. “I believe the tank is still full?”

 

#

They set off in under an hour. While Castiel was settling his abrupt resignation with Nora, Dean raided the nearest diner to grab an enormous bag of takeout burgers and drinks. When Castiel was back to the Impala, it seemed to have that amazingly familiar smell all around.

Castiel took the driver’s seat. As he reached out to adjust the mirrors, he hesitated briefly, but Dean just nodded, giving his mute permission to whatever was necessary for comfortable driving. Castiel took a moment to explain he didn’t need any maps or directions, and Dean was both pleased and surprised to learn that.

The Impala hit the road, leaving a cloud of dust behind. Rexford, Idaho, was vanishing in it, and mile by mile its highest buildings were merging into a formless dark ridge in the pink and orange sunset sky. The town that had hosted Castiel for these last months, was melting away, like a bad dream in the morning, irreversibly and with no regrets.

Dean placed himself in the back, half-sitting and half-lying on a pile of their clothes (and a sleeping bag that Castiel refused to leave behind), so that his injured back wasn’t touching the seat. He wasn’t talking much, just dropped an occasional sentence here and there, but his expression was relaxed and soft, and small wrinkles kept running from the corners of his eyes as he smiled to his thoughts.

This quiet, peaceful silence remained all the way to Pocatello, where Dean finally broke it.

“Cas,” he called.

“What?”

“Next time you drive her alone, turn on the headlights, okay? A round knob on the dash, left of the wheel. Just pull it.”

Castiel glanced in the rear view mirror. Propped up on his elbow in the back seat, Dean was smiling at him. Castiel felt his mouth go dry.

“You knew I had taken your car?”

“Yep.”   

“But how did you know?”

Dean grinned, “I couldn’t have missed the sound of her engine starting. I heard you.”

Castiel could not imagine how that was even possible. “But you were—”

“Conked out?” Dean finished for him. “Yeah, but _that_ sound I would’ve heard from Hell. No idea how, but it is what it is. I heard the engine, and thought the lights would come up in the window, and they didn’t. That’s kinda usual to do when you get in the car after dark, by the way, sort of the next thing everyone but Stevie Wonder does after starting the engine.”

“Oh, really,” Castiel managed to say, avoiding Dean’s eyes.

“Yeah.” Dean hit the front seat to make Castiel look at him. “Cas?”

Castiel cautiously glanced back. “What?”

Dean smiled again and said, “Don’t disappear anymore, okay?”

It was still less than clear how to face the future in the bunker. Castiel had to somehow clear things up with Ezekiel, find out how far Kevin had managed to progress with his research and whether there was a way to help him on the rest, seek a local job to be less dependent on the brothers financially, maybe get himself some fake ID (just to be on the safe side during the hunts). Not to mention finding Metatron and other angel-related issues. There were plenty of things to cover. And besides that— he really wanted to get rid of certain very unpleasant memories associated with staying in the bunker. Perhaps it would help to replace them with some new ones.

He realized suddenly that the latter had already started to happen. Just heading to Kansas, driving the Impala, having Dean in the backseat smiling and looking alright— was helping a lot. And soon would help even more. _At the end of the day,_ he thought, _maybe that distance between us is not so far. Or maybe there’s no distance at all._

Castiel hit the gas and looked in the rearview mirror.

“Of course, Dean,” he said.

And he smiled back.

 

_The End_


End file.
